


Mr Smith Goes to Jefferson

by facetofcathy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-30
Updated: 2010-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the community <span><a href="http://spn-bitesized.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://spn-bitesized.dreamwidth.org/"><b>spn_bitesized</b></a></span></p><p>Prompt was:  Zachariah gets killed before he reveals to Dean Smith who he really is. So Dean Smith and Sam Wesson carry on as they were, as if that was always their life, not knowing who they really are. Sam/Dean, preferably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr Smith Goes to Jefferson

**Author's Note:**

> Dubious consent and non-consensual incest--see prompt.

__

_"Sir, are you all right?"_

_The woman was staring at his face with concern. He could feel Zachariah close, and he didn't have time for this. He touched his lip. Blood again. "I'm fine," he said, and he smiled--futilely, he knew--he still could not mimic human expression correctly. Her concern tightened into wariness and she moved away. He reached out and caught her before she could back away more than a step. "I am fine," he said with power in the words, and her expression fell slack, almost blank. She nodded obedience to the commands hidden under the words, turned, and walked away around the corner towards the elevator._

_He heard the door open, heard the woman greet Mr. Adler, heard the jovial reply._

_He was ready for Zachariah, had the weapon in hand. He had no doubts. This would work, and Dean and Sam would be safe; he'd make sure of it._

* * *

Most jobs had a learning curve, Sam knew that. His gig at Sandover had mostly involved learning how to deal with boredom and knowing that the suits didn't want you to talk to them unless their printer was jammed. His new job--vocation, lifestyle choice, whatever the hell it was--taught some very unusual lessons. Like how a collapsible shovel didn't cut it for grave desecration and finding holy water by the gallon could be a challenge. Buying guns had been easy; making silver bullets was not. Convincing people you were with the FBI was doable, but convincing them to tell you what they really saw, not so much.

He still hated his name--if he heard another corn oil joke, it would be too soon--still dreamed about Dean Smith and monsters and death, but he felt like he was finally doing the thing he was meant for. Or at least he felt that way when he wasn't trying to dig a grave with a broken shovel and had only three salt rounds left for the sawed-off.

He sent another shovel-full of dirt over his shoulder, and the air suddenly tasted of ozone; the hair on his arms stood up. The last few times the ghost of Lucas Williams, former mayor of Jefferson, Wyoming, had appeared, it had wailed and flickered and stirred up some breeze, but that was it. Sam left his shotgun on the ground and kept digging.

Lucas flickered into view, and the wind started to howl. Sam was tossed back onto the grass--his shoulder getting uncomfortably familiar with the headstone of Penelope Clausewitz, born 1935, died 1998, beloved grandmother. The wind swirled around him, and Sam felt like something was lifting him, and he knew he was going for another ride courtesy of good old Lucas. Unless Lucas tossed him back towards his gun, Sam was fucked. The ghost flickered, and Sam got a glimpse of deep shadow and motion behind it; his ass hit hard as he dropped back to land on top of Penelope again.

"Jesus Christ, Sam, how are you even still alive?"

"Dean?" Sam said, and scrambled up, and it was Dean Smith, dressed in something all black and body-hugging and holding an iron crowbar.

"Yeah, it's me. Come on Sam, get your ass in gear so we can dig this guy up and then put him to bed."

Sam followed Dean back to the grave, a little mesmerized by just how body-hugging his jeans were.

Dean kicked Sam's broken shovel away from the grave. "Sam," he said, shaking his head. "Proper planning prevents piss poor performance."

"What?"

"God, Sam, when was the last time you did a management seminar? Now this--" he hefted a shovel "--is a proper tool. Fibreglass handle, steel head, riveted construction, none of those cheep spot welded joins." He drove the shovel into the ground, bent his legs into some uncomfortable looking crouch, and a clump of dirt sailed by Sam's nose. "Always lift with the legs, Sam, and your back will thank you."

They dug up Lucas, burned through the remaining salt rounds before they burned up Lucas, but Dean seemed to enjoy swinging the iron bar, so they made it through to the putting to bed part okay.

"I'm getting so much practice with my swing, Sam, I probably have a hell of a handicap by now."

Sam just stared at him. Now that they were under the parking lot lights, Sam could see that Dean was wearing designer black jeans and a black knit shirt with clingy long sleeves and a hood--a far cry from the bargain bin stuff from Target that Sam wore for digging up bones.

"Sammy! Don't tell me you don't play golf, because then I'll have to forget I know you. You at the Blue Moon? Must be, right? Only motel in town." Dean slapped him on the back and didn't wait for an answer. "Follow me back. I've got a six-pack of low-carb beer, we can celebrate."

Dean stowed the shovel in a cleverly hidden compartment in the back of a hybrid SUV and drove off. Sam got in his beat up old Ford Taurus and followed.

* * *

"Adler's dead?" Sam said, and he drained the weak as dishwater beer and wished for a bottle of tequila. He felt like he was still flailing around in the graveyard; he seemed to be capable of incredulous questions and blank stares and not much else.

"Found him about ten feet from my office door. Man, I tell you, that was quite the day. They got the guy who did it, though. Found him passed out down the hall, stroked out or something. He's in the hospital in a coma and nobody has clue one about motive."

"And now you're hunting?"

Dean turned away, busied himself over in the little kitchenette. "I ah, yeah. Truth is Sam, what you said to me that day, about thinking you were meant to do this. It got me thinking about my career and Sandover, and just how much I needed their health insurance. I was writing up my letter of resignation when they found Adler and all hell broke loose." Dean was digging in a hard-shell suitcase, setting out bottled water and packets of coffee. He saw Sam watching, and he shrugged and said, "Can't stand this motel crap." Sam watched him fuss around for a while, and then he opened the last two beers and brought them over to sit across from Sam again. "I looked for you, once I got the hell out of Sandover, but you were dust, man."

Sam ducked his head down, not wanting Dean to see how much those words meant to him. "I ah, I've been kicking around you know, figuring things out. Killing a few things." He debated how much to tell Dean about his life on the road. How hard it was. How good it was. How much he thought about Dean every single day.

"You still dreaming?"

Sam stilled his hands and looked up at Dean. Dean was looking over at the picture hanging over the motel bed. "Yeah. I still--all the time."

Dean looked back then, a level stare, and Sam dropped his eyes, checked out the black rib-knit shirt again. It looked like it was some designer attempt at the ninja look, and it was tight enough Sam could see Dean's nipples peaking the fabric. Dean caught the direction of his look and ran a hand down his chest. "You like it?" he said. "100% silk. It's the perfect fabric for your more physical cases--keeps in body heat, but it breathes, and it looks pretty damn good too."

"Yeah, I'm sure the diner waitresses love it." Sam said.

Dean grinned at him, smug and very self-satisfied. "Everybody likes it. You sure seem to."

Sam tried to cover his confusion with a studied, casual sip of his beer. Ghost of beer, really. He wondered if it would vanish if he salted it. Okay, sure, he dreamed about Dean all the time, mostly one long horror show, but sometimes it was just Dean smiling at him fondly or laughing like he'd just heard the greatest joke ever. And, yes, Sam thought the guy was hot, in an arrogant asshole kind of way, and he'd entertained the fantasy of stripping him out of his stripes and suspenders a time or two, but--"Are you coming on to me?"

Dean's grin grew even broader, and he leaned back in the cheep plastic chair and let his legs fall open. "What do you think?"

"Save it for the health club." Sam said sharply. "That ring any bells?" He stood up and paced around the tiny room, wondering if he should leave, or slug the smirk off of Dean's face or--do something a little more dangerous.

"I thought that pissed you off. Sam, I was at work. I was not out at work, and at least two other guys were after my job." Dean's grin faded for a second. "I wonder who got my job, Andrews or Patel?"

Sam stared at the single most infuriating, pain in the ass, smokin' hot, anal-retentive shovel geek he'd ever fucking met. He was really leaning towards slugging more and more every second.

"It was tough, though, turning you down. You actually managed to make that horrible yellow shirt look hot."

Sam set down the beer bottle on the table and took a deep breath; the more dangerous option had just pulled out in front. "Dean," he said, slowly, in the voice he'd reserved for talking senior management through a restart. "If you don't want me to fuck you, you should say so now."

Dean sat up, his expression hardening, his grin fading away. "Interesting proposal, Sam. Here's my counter-offer: if you're not naked and on that bed in thirty seconds, I'm going to cut those rags off you with the knife under my pillow."

Sam flushed hot at the words. He could feel the cold metal blade against his skin, like it was already happening--Dean holding him down and slicing the clothes off of him, peeling back the layers until there was nothing but skin. He wanted it, and it scared the hell out of him, and he also wanted to grab the man and slam him into the wall and show him who was in charge was out here in the real world. He'd known at Sandover there was something he was meant for, something he should be doing, and he'd been right about that. Except Dean was supposed to be part of it, maybe the biggest part of it, but he didn't know if he could give in, let Dean take control like he seemed to expect.

He closed his eyes, and he saw Dean, not the man in front of him, but the man in his dreams--so often stretched to breaking and beyond, in despair, in pain, empty.

"Time's up, Sam."

Sam opened his eyes and found the real Dean standing in front of him, smug smile, eyes glittering like jewels, entitled and self-satisfied and arrogant. Hungry.

Sam toed off his shoes, shrugged off his flannel shirt. Dean could carve up his dirt-stained jeans all he wanted; all Sam cared about was getting out of them. "You've got a deal," Sam said, and Dean pulled him down and kissed him hard.


End file.
